The Seventh Sentinel Read online

  Mavrus seemed only then to notice Salimshad’s presence. He regarded the black-swathed elf over his shoulder. “Your manservant may wish to join the other staff in the kitchen.”

  “Salimshad will remain with me,” Lyim said. The elf slipped around Lyim like a shadow at such events and usually went unnoticed.

  Mavrus bowed his head. “As you wish.”

  Lyim followed the silent-footed manservant through the largest of the black-and-white arches, into the hanging gardens. The room itself was larger than the village in which Lyim had grown up. Like the entryway, the walls here were wrought of rare woods and veined marble inlaid with burnished copper.

  Despite the cold climate of the Plains of Dust, the hanging gardens had no ceiling. Above was only the blue-black sky and first twinkling stars of early evening. There were no fireplaces, and yet the room was always warm. Tropical ferns and fig trees festooned with thousands of lit candles flourished here.

  The potentate used the palace’s magic to keep it as warm and tropical as it had been over three hundred years before, as if no earthshaking Cataclysm had ever occurred to change the climate. Before Lyim was done with his crusade against magic, it would be as cold as a tomb in here.

  The crowd of party-goers parted like a wave as the guest of honor approached. A colorful lot, each sequined velvet trouser seemed more pretentious than the last, as if to cry, “Look at me! My owner is important!” Lyim recognized most of the nobility and, of course, the other amirs and their overdressed wives. The nobles’ faces were each painted into the perpetually wide-eyed smile that was fashionable these days in Qindaras.

  But even face paint could not hide their expressions of suspicion and fear as they watched Lyim approach the potentate. The fear was new, and it pleased him. So much so, in fact, that Lyim tipped his glass of springwater and smiled at the amirs and their wives for the first time, a slight, wry raising of a corner of his mouth. The unexpectedly civil expression made them withdraw even farther.

  Lyim knew they suspected him of setting up Amir Rusinias. He wanted his peers to believe he had done it, to think he could do it to them, as well. Salimshad had fanned the rumor among citizen and nobleman alike that Lyim was a man who smoldered under the surface, just waiting to erupt. That description had special significance, since the elf had also let it be known that Lyim was a powerful mage who refused to practice his Art.

  The other amirs stood in a fashionably dressed cluster, like cows in a patch of shade on a hot day. They liked each other no more than they did Lyim, but now they huddled together, united against him. That suited Lyim just fine, too. They would be so occupied protecting their small holdings that they would spend no time advancing them.

  Lyim could see Aniirin ahead, sitting alone among the candlelit ficus trees. In honor of the festivities, the potentate wore the same well-tailored robe Lyim had last seen him in; it still hung too high on one shoulder and so drooped over the hand of his other arm. Aniirin fidgeted upon his carved and inlaid ebony throne, centuries-old and of dwarven design.

  Mavrus’s mouth was open to officially announce Lyim when Aniirin leaped to his feet and rushed to pump Lyim’s hand.

  “Amir Rhistadt,” Mavrus said belatedly. Then the manservant discreetly disappearing into the shrubbery.

  “Thank the gods you’re finally here!” said Aniirin. “Couldn’t speak to anyone else until you’d been announced, you know. Rules of etiquette established by my beloved ancestor, Aniirin I. But let us retire from this mob,” the potentate whispered eagerly. “I’ve something more interesting to do than stand about.”

  “Sire, you wished to make an announcement to all the attendees,” Mavrus murmured from the trees.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said the potentate distractedly. “Tell all those other people to stop drinking my wine and come in here where they can hear me!” He gave Mavrus mere heartbeats to draw the others over, forcing them to run like street urchins after a handout.

  “Tonight we toast Amir Rhistadt in honor of outstanding service rendered. To show our gratitude, we hereby announce his promotion to basha and grant him all such privileges as the title bestows.”

  The potentate’s expression darkened instantly, as if a cloud had passed overhead. “A vicious and craven coup was attempted upon my person, but prevented by the bravery and foresight of Lyim Rhistadt. The culprit has been duly punished and his family banished. Let it be known that the name of the traitor, Amir Malwab Rusinias, shall never be spoken in Qindaras again. Henceforth, anyone caught similarly plotting, or even uttering the cursed name, will suffer the same fate.”

  Aniirin snapped his fingers to Mavrus, who in turn signaled to another servant beyond the trees and out of Lyim’s sight. Two liveried soldiers shouldered an unadorned wooden box, too small to be a coffin, too plain to be a treasure chest, and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor before the potentate.

  “Behold a traitor’s fate.” With a shiny booted toe, Aniirin flipped open the latch on the box. Unsuspecting men and women alike pressed in curiously. Lyim hung back and watched them, arms crossed.

  All the women shrieked; two fell into faints, and one soiled her cerulean brocade gown with a mouthful of spewed spirits. The other amirs withdrew with their womenfolk, scowling at, of all people, Lyim.

  The newly proclaimed basha barely leaned forward to peer down his nose at the contents of the box, though he would have bet considerable coin as to what was inside it.

  Atop a bloody, twisted pile of barely recognizable body parts was the head of Amir Rusinias. His face had been painted with the pale skin and wide-eyed smile of many of the party-goers. The stench was instantly overwhelming.

  Secretly, Lyim applauded the stunt. For all his childish petulance and distractibility, the potentate could show brilliant flashes of insight. The contrast between the sumptuous festivities and the pile of gore in the box was a stark reminder of the potentate’s true power over his citizens. What delicious irony that the only one who recognized this was the one not loyal to Aniirin, thought Lyim. Still, he kept his face a mask of studied indifference.

  “Impressive deterrent, Sire.” Lyim sipped the last of his mineral water, then held his glass high, signaling over Aniirin’s shoulder for Mavrus to bring him another. “The …” Lyim hesitated, recalling the curse upon the dead man’s name, “amir deserved such a fate, not only for disloyalty, but for unparalleled stupidity.” He accepted the glass that Mavrus held at his elbow.

  Aniirin gave a distracted wave, dismissing the box containing the dead amir from his presence, as well as his thoughts. The silent soldiers hefted the remains and slipped into the dark beyond the candlelit trees.

  “I asked Mavrus to schedule the jugglers and acrobats right after viewing the corpse. It will lighten the festivities again, don’t you think? They’re quite good. I’ve seen them myself. Mavrus said they’ve teamed up with a most impressive wizard from our very own plains. I do so love magic, you know. The whole palace is run by magic, as you must have guessed. Yet I can’t cast a spell to save my life. I studied under a series of masters as a boy, but it never came to me.”

  The potentate took Lyim by the arm and steered him toward the front row of chairs before a small stage assembled for the occasion.

  “I hear rumors that you are a powerful mage. Why is it that you no longer use magic?”

  Lyim’s lips pursed. “I used to have a middling skill, yes. I gave up the Art for personal reasons.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” puffed Aniirin, settling himself with an undignified plop into a seat. “I would find an amir with such skill very useful. Very useful, indeed. For instance, I’d be interested in a critique of the wizard we’re about to see. Perhaps later you’ll even show me how to perform a spell or two.”

  Lyim was saved from answering by the arrival of the colorfully dressed acrobats. They tumbled in, one after the other, twisting and leaping in concentric circles. Suddenly they formed a human pyramid before the potentate. The pyramid dissolved into myr
iad other shapes: geometric patterns, birds, even a likeness of what Lyim assumed was a mythical dragon.

  Lyim watched them through bored, slitted eyes. He had seen their likes, and better, every night in his youth, upriver in Rowley-on-Torath. Such traveling entertainers had been as numerous as drunkards in the dusty tavern in which he’d been left to grow up, while his mother entertained travelers in the chambers above. That is, until she’d lost her life to one of the countless diseases that usually killed her kind at a young age.

  Lyim was ten when he heard of his mother’s death. He hadn’t seen her since he was six. His parents had never married, in fact had done no more than pass each other in the dark one night, with Lyim as the result. Ardem Rhistadt had agreed to allow the child to take his name, for all the good it did. The man soon moved on to another town, without his child.

  Though his mother’s death technically made Lyim an orphan, it changed nothing. He was earning a few coins and some scraps of food as a general errand runner and clean-up boy at another of Rowley’s run-down inns. It was there, one night in Lyim’s twelfth year, that he saw something that would forever change the direction of his life.

  A traveling sleight-of-hand artist was passing through Rowley during the short summer months. Lyim could no longer recall his name, but he would forever remember the tall, lanky man with a dirty yellow cape and equally grimy hair who made coins appear in patrons’ ears or under their tankards. When Lyim saw the magician count his evening’s take—more money than the youth expected to earn in a lifetime—he knew he, too, would become a wizard.

  Such memories were no longer comforting to Lyim. He dashed them away when the leader of the jugglers announced the next act.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I would introduce for your entertainment, Fabulous Fendock!”

  Usually the master of composure, Lyim nearly tumbled from his chair when the sleight of hand artist entered the room. He blinked up at the stage and focused on the figure there. The man was just beginning to stoop from age, but was still quite tall. A slight paunch was pushing out the midsection of his robe; his arms and legs were thin as sticks. But the eyes were unmistakable. They still radiated the same promise of great knowledge and mystery that was so completely false.

  It should not be surprising that you would meet Fendock again, Lyim chided himself, the Plains of Dust are his territory. The trickster had seemed ancient to a twelve-year-old boy; Lyim had assumed the man long dead from old age or a stab wound delivered by a jealous husband or a clever patron who’d seen through Fendock’s tricks.

  Fendock had the look of a man who’d been on the road too long, drank too much, and slept too little. His nose and eyes were red. His hands trembled while he performed the same tired tricks he’d reluctantly taught the small boy from Rowley. Lyim could easily recall cutting open a lime to find the copper ring inside, pouring dry sand from a bowl of water, even making a glass globe float in the air.

  Actually, they weren’t all trickery. Fendock used some genuine magic in his act, but it was entirely the sort that apprentices learn and perform as exercises: simple manipulations of light, sound, and weight.

  When Fendock discovered that Lyim possessed far greater natural ability for such exploits than he, the magician had angrily cut off what little training he’d provided. Lyim had slipped away in the middle of the night with Fendock’s prized spellbooks. Lyim had felt no guilt. In fact, he considered the books only a partial payment for the services he’d rendered the bogus mage.

  Still, Lyim averted his face a little, fearful that Fendock would recognize and acknowledge him publicly. The story of his street-rat upbringing and apprenticeship to one such as Fendock would be deadly for the mysterious image Lyim had cultivated in Qindaras. Fortunately, Fendock saw nothing beyond the ends of his arms, where his shaking hands manipulated props out of habit. Besides, Lyim bore no resemblance to the wide-eyed lad of twelve who’d begged Fendock to teach him the secrets of magic.

  Lyim began to feel distinctly edgy. He had the undeniable urge to slip upstairs to escape Fendock’s voice. Surprised by the intensity of his own reaction, Lyim stood clumsily and muttered an apology to Aniirin. Entranced by Fendock, the potentate took no notice as the basha slipped away from the show. Once free of the humid gardens and the crowd, he sat in the relative darkness of the grand staircase, closed his eyes, and pressed his fists to his throbbing temples. What’s the matter with you? he asked himself.

  But he already knew the answer. Magic was calling to him—and his blood was answering. Like ale to a drunkard who’d sworn off the stuff, the pull of magic was always strong to Lyim. What he didn’t understand was why it was so overwhelming tonight. Had he underestimated what proximity to a vast amount of magic—like the enchantments that coursed throughout the palace—would do to him? He’d been to the palace before, but never had he felt this. The magic beckoned him here, now. Its call was stronger than any place he’d ever been—even the Tower of High Sorcery.

  “Is something wrong, Basha?”

  Lyim was so distracted he hadn’t heard Salimshad’s approach. His head shot up. “I have a pounding headache,” was all he said. There were things about himself he would not share even with Salimshad. Information was a weapon, and Salimshad already had more weapons against Lyim than made the basha comfortable.

  “I’m going to find a dark room upstairs in which to meditate briefly,” Lyim ground out. “Go back to the festivities. If pressed, make whatever excuse you must about my absence to Aniirin or Mavrus.” Lyim frowned; he found speaking over the tumult in his head irritating.

  “Another thing,” he said, in the private language they had developed for their own use. “Have the magician killed when he steps foot outside the palace.”

  “Yes, Basha.” The elf slipped away into shadow.

  Lyim stood too quickly and felt dizzy. He closed his eyes briefly to collect his equilibrium, then stumbled up the stairs. Distantly, he could feel the copper pattern cut into the cool marble through the thin soles of his slippers. He held to that, focused his thoughts on that texture, anything to shut out the pain in his head.

  He stepped onto the second floor landing and leaned against an intricately carved pillar. Sweat poured down his face; his breath came in ragged gasps. He forced his eyes to focus on a portion of the pattern in the mosaic floor, while his mind looked inward for calming meditation. The mosaic tiles were sharp and bright in his vision, and their crisp edges created a feeling of cool freshness behind his sweating brow. He pictured the tense muscles of his forehead relaxing and pushing the compulsive thoughts away. It slowed the pounding, but the pull was as strong as ever.

  From nowhere, a slip of mist slithered across the tile at which Lyim was staring. He blinked, and his dry eyes pooled with soothing tears. The white vapor must have entered the palace through the open ceiling in the hanging garden, he told himself. The mist wavered in his watery vision until he rubbed the tears away. What he saw at that moment made him blink yet again.

  It was not mist swaying before him, but a woman, lithe and fair. She wore little more than a mauvy bolt of gauze twisted around her slight frame, leaving alabaster-white limbs exposed. Her hair was as ghost-pale and luminous as mother-of-pearl. She looked like a living statue, so perfect was her beauty. Lyim felt his throat catch and the pounding in his ears dim.

  The woman smiled when she saw she had Lyim’s rapt attention.

  “Who are you?” he called, taking a step toward her. “One of Aniirin’s concubines?”

  The woman pirouetted on one toe, shot him a look over her graceful shoulder, then bounded out of sight around the pillar.

  “Wait!” Lyim charged after her, but when he rounded the column she was nowhere to be seen. The hallway was long, open on the right side for half its length to overlook the hanging gardens. Festive flute music swelled from among the trees below, signaling the beginning of the dance.

  He could see no doors to his left, just a long stretch of wall covered with elaborate tapest
ries. Lyim was pondering whether the mystery woman was simply fleet-of-foot or magically conjured when he caught a distant glimpse of her at the far end of the corridor. Squinting, he waited and watched for her next move. To his surprise she didn’t leave; she stood still, as if she were waiting for him.

  Lyim would have called to her again, but he feared attracting the notice of the party-goers in the gardens below. Too curious to ignore the woman, he moved closer to the left wall, out of sight of any celebrants, and began following her at his own carefully controlled pace. He would not be seen chasing after any woman. Just the same, he hastened his steps to catch up with her.

  As he neared the end of the open railing, she disappeared into an archway to the left. Lyim broke into a run. His head was clear of the pounding now, but he felt compelled to chase her, driven. He realized vaguely that she had bewitched him, yet he was powerless to ignore her. Sweat formed between his shoulder blades as he ran through a handful of ornate, formal rooms joined by corridors, teased by fleeting glimpses of her diaphanous gown ahead.

  Lyim rounded a corner at a dead run. He skidded to a stop and nearly cried aloud in surprise. The woman was within arms’ reach, standing under a mosaic archway. Smiling enticingly, she floated through the arch. She paused briefly when she noticed Lyim had not followed. Peering over her shoulder, she waved him in.

  Lyim followed her into a small, windowless room. His eyes adjusted slowly. All around, the shadowy walls and ceiling were painted in a three-dimensional fresco of the palace complex, colorful and minutely detailed. The woman was seductively draped over a glass box, which was perched on a smooth, rosewood pedestal. Her paleness had a golden glow now, lit from beneath by the object in the case—a heavily ornamented gauntlet.

  “Who are you? One of the potentate’s concubines?” Lyim asked again. His words boomed in the small room, no larger than a dressing chamber.

  The woman appeared to ponder his question. When she replied at last her words were softly musical, like wind through the trees, her answer as mysterious. I suppose you could say I have been a mistress of sorts to all Qindaras’s potentates. You may call me Ventyr.